


And Now a Word From Our Sponsors

by Thief in the Dark (M_Moonshade)



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Angst, Books are alive, Carlos is a protective boyfriend, Cecil is Human, Cecil is Inhuman, F/M, Gen, Horror, M/M, Marcus Vansten is a dick, Mild Gore, Moving Tattoo(s), Ray Bradbury reference, Tattooed Carlos, Unrequited Love, Violence, and sometimes - Freeform, at least I'd call it mild, cuteness, not-explicit gore, ratings vary, reeducation, see I can write not-angsty things!, unrepentant sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-01-05 07:48:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 15,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_Moonshade/pseuds/Thief%20in%20the%20Dark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of unrelated drabbles and one-shots about our Friendly Desert Town.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rain

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally inspired by this image: http://askcarlossquared.tumblr.com/post/70320049665/sexybaldwin-raideo-vanquish-darkstar-so
> 
> At first glance I thought the shadows were puddles, so this happened.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated G; Character death.
> 
> The rain started after the funeral.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You get a cookie if you can find the Ray Bradbury reference.

The rain started at the funeral. Just a few drops at first— hesitant, sniffed back and blinked away until the clouds could no longer reabsorb them into the atmosphere. They fell on desert mahogany, and added just a few more grams of weight to the coffin as it was lowered into the ground.

The rain fell freely as it hit its resting place, and the first handfuls of dirt were scattered over the polished surface. When the funeral ended and there was only one man left in the cemetery, the dam broke and the storm turned violent, the night brightened by lightning so fierce it might rip the sky apart. The wind howled enough to rip shingles from rooftops and spines off cacti, until the storm raged itself into oblivion and all fell quiet.

Still it rained.

There was no void anymore, no stars— only the cover of clouds overhead. Lawns became thick and overgrown, sprouting too fast for even the most determined lawnmowers to keep up. And then, not long after, they began to die, drowning in their own sustenance. Trenches were dug, to direct the excess to the waterfront— and when it overwhelmed the boardwalk, more trenches directed the overflow into Radon Canyon. Raincoats and umbrellas and rubber galoshes became everyday attire, filling the streets with colors that would have been neon-bright if they’d been shown in actual sunlight. But everything was growing dim and pale, bleached by endless, endless rain.

Every day there were less spots of color on the streets. Every day there were more drownings, more people fleeing Night Vale for the higher ground that they used to believe didn’t exist.

It didn’t stop raining for a long time after— not until the canyon was a trench, the desert sands beaches, the sleepy desert town washed away into nothing but driftwood and memory.

They say you can still see it. If you venture out into the water (always in a boat, because  Nameless Things still lurk beneath the waves) and look very carefully (maybe it’s an illusion, just a reflection of evening sun on glittering waves) you can see the light of a radio tower blinking below, and hear a soft, quiet voice:

"Good night, Carlos. Good night."


	2. Blank Slate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated: T
> 
> Based on a prompt "borrowed" from videntefernandez.tumblr.com: ”Everyone thinks Cecil will get re-educated and forget about Carlos, but what if it was Carlos who forgot about Cecil?”

Cecil arrived at the apartment just in time to see an unmarked van pull away—unmarked and blue, the same shade as the helicopters that circled over the desert.

His stomach lurched. He barely let the car come to a halt before he ripped the keys out of the ignition and bounded up the walk to the townhome he shared with Carlos.

_It’s fine. They came for somebody else. Anybody else. It’s fine. IT’S FINE._

The door opened easily under his shaking hand, not waiting for a key.

_Everything’s fine. Carlos just got home early. He forgot to lock up. He always forgets to lock up._

Yes, Carlos got home early. That’s why he was sitting on the sofa, his shoulders slumped, his hair disheveled, his intelligent eyes blank and staring. But still alive. Home. All his limbs still attached. No sign of blood on his clothes.

That was good, right?

“Carlos?” He stepped closer.

The scientist’s gaze finally turned to him, the emptiness fading into something vague and confused.

Instinct told Cecil to ask if he was all right, but that was a stupid question. Of course he wasn’t. Cecil should just hold him tight and break open a bottle or twelve of municipally approved vodka, and help Carlos drink away the trauma. “Oh, Carlos. I’m so sorry.”

Carlos blinked, like he couldn’t see properly through his glasses. “How did you get in here?”

Cecil smiled gently. Strange questions usually followed re-education. This he could handle.

“Through the door,” he said. “It was unlocked.”

“Oh.” The scientist frowned, like he was looking for a fallacy in that statement. “What are you doing here?”

Stranger than usual, but Cecil could roll with it. “I live here, Carlos. We live here.”

“We?” The frown deepened. Fallacy found. “I don’t—who are you?”

There was nothing cruel or malicious about the words, but they hit Cecil like a hatchet to the chest.

“It’s me. Carlos, it’s me. Cecil. Cecil Palmer.” He forced his mouth to twist back into a disarming smile; it must have looked more like a grimace, because his beautiful Carlos recoiled at the sight.

“I don’t know you,” he said, firmer than before. The vague expression melted away as his features hardened.

And on some level, Cecil understood. He knew what it meant to be reeducated. To forget. On some level he knew that trying to fight the reeducation was fruitless. Useless. Dangerous.

“We’ve been dating for months.” The words tumbled out of Cecil’s mouth, rushed and messy. “Our first date was at Gino’s, and the whole town was turning into shadows—“

Carlos was on his feet and backing away from him. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You got me this watch for our one-month anniversary. You tried to buy a condo, before we moved in here.” Damn his feet, they were carrying him closer to Carlos, who looked more stricken with every step. “You keep having to cancel date nights because there’s some new disaster, and I always forgive you because you’re heroic like that and I love you for it—“

Carlos stopped moving. For a fluttering moment, Cecil thought he’d gotten through to him—but Carlos’ back had hit the wall. “You’re insane. Get out of my house. Now.”

 _No no no no no_ —Carlos had to remember. He had to.

Frantic, Cecil lunged at the scientist, pinning him to the wall with a bruising kiss.

Carlos went still.

_Please remember me. Please please please._

His mouth moved. Familiar lips brushed against Cecil’s, tasting like magnesium and cayenne.

And then teeth clamped down on his lip, hard enough that he tasted blood. Cecil jerked back with a cry, and a fist drove into his jaw.

Cecil fell at Carlos’ feet.

“Get. The  _hell_. Away from me.” The scientist loomed over him like a god of war.

“Please,” Cecil whispered. He reached out to his boyfriend, but his hand was smacked away.

“Don’t you touch me.”

Outside, another blue van screeched to a halt. Balaklava-clad Secret Police officers rushed inside, warned Cecil to stand down, brandished handcuffs and automatic weapons.

Cecil didn’t pay any attention to them. His gaze remained fixed on Carlos, silently praying to his dark-haired god to  _remember_.

But Carlos’ beautiful face showed only anger. Confusion. Alarm. And in that instant before the bag covered Cecil’s eyes, pity.  

A single thought— _will they make me forget Carlos, too?_ —and then the world went dark. 


	3. Lab Coats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated: T
> 
> I got an anonymous prompt on my tumblr (thief-in-the-dark.tumblr.com): Cecil wants to see Carlos at work, so Carlos gives him one of his old lab coats to wear while poking around his lab. Carlos catches Cecil looking down at his coat and twirling around like a girl in her prom dress. He lets Cecil keep it.
> 
> (http://thief-in-the-dark.tumblr.com/post/72561219437/cecil-wants-to-see-carlos-at-work-so-carlos-gives-him)

“Pay up,” Aislin said, and Yuri reached for his wallet. So far she was three for three: she was the one who’d bet it would take at least a year for their boss to give in and give the radio host a shot. She hadn’t guessed twenty-nine days exactly-- that had been Li-- but she’d guessed fifteen to thirty days before Carlos got over his blushing and stammering enough to actually ask Cecil out on a date. She was confident enough to wager fifty bucks and a box of contraband spaghetti on the third bet: three months after their first date, Carlos formally introduced his new boyfriend to the rest of the lab.

She was going to gorge herself on the delicious whole wheat linguini tonight.

While Aislin fantasized about the night’s dinner, Carlos led Cecil into the supply cabinet. Immediately a crowd of scientists gathered around the door, listening intently for raised voices, dramatic confessions, or the sounds of a back being slammed into the wall in the heat of passion. They promptly scattered a few moments later when the happy couple emerged, Cecil properly decked in goggles, gloves and a lab coat.

“The gear is just a precaution,” Carlos said gently, though he glared at the rest of the team. “You should be fine as long as you don’t touch anything, but most of these materials don’t have positive interactions with organic tissue.” It was dry enough that Julio had to turn away for a facepalm, but a few of the other scientists exchanged giggly smiles. For Carlos Velasquez, that was downright romantic.

He showed Cecil around the lab, naming equipment and explaining experiments so quickly that grad students would have a hard time keeping up. Judging by the dopey grin on Cecil’s face, he didn’t understand a word, but his eyes were glued to Carlos the entire time: his face, his hair, the flow of his lab coat.

Danny and Lashawnda excused to gush outside, and for nearly fifteen minutes they could be heard giggling and squealing with the lab’s Secret Police officer.

It was hard to blame them. By common consensus, Carlos was by far the one of the most attractive men most of them had laid eyes on, though there was some argument over whether his appearance should be classified as hot, hawt, or sexyfine. And it was hard not to get invested in a love story when it was being broadcasted over the radio for a freakin’ year, especially when Carlos got so obviously flushed and flustered every time Cecil crooned his name on air. It was enough to turn even the most objective, stonefaced analysts in their group into hopeless romantics.

“Will you be all right here for a few minutes?” Carlos asked, opening the door to their decontamination chamber. “I just need to check on this, and then we can go to lunch.”

Many of the scientists agreed that Cecil’s eager nod was one of the most adorable things they’d ever seen.

Some of them were annoyed-- not by the display, but by how long it was taking Carlos. ‘A few minutes’ was quickly turning into a quarter hour, and, according to Li, that “just isn’t cool, man.”

They opted for discretion-- they didn’t want to embarrass Cecil, and they definitely didn’t want to scare Carlos into not bringing his boyfriend by the lab again-- so Aislin went alone, to grab Carlos and forcibly drag him out of the lab if necessary.

She’d barely reached the door when caught sight of their guest. Cecil had his phone out and was taking selfies, entire portfolios of them, mugging for the camera like a teenager in a dress-up montage. Carefully he arranged his camera on one of the tables and paced back and forth in front of it, and his eyes lit up when he watched the video of the coat flapping heroically behind him. Finally satisfied with his picture, he gave an experimental twirl, and grinned wide when the lab coat flared like a poorly made prom dress. He was still spinning when Carlos stepped out of the decontamination chamber.

The scientist's mouth dropped open. He flushed all the way to the tips of his ears. He took a step forward-- just in time for Cecil to take a step back. They met in a fantastic collision, and both ended up on the floor: Cecil on his butt, Carlos straddling his hips, both of them red-faced and stammering.

“Um… sorry,” Carlos started, about the same time Cecil squeaked an “Oops!”

They tried again: “Are you okay?” Carlos asked.

“Yes. Fine. Just fine.” Judging by the mortified shift in his eyes, Cecil was praying for one of the more typical Night Vale anomalies to show up and swallow him whole.

“Sorry it took so long,” Carlos said.

Cecil’s mouth said, “No problem. Really. It’s fine,” but his eyes said kill me now.  

“Good.” Carlos dipped forward and kissed him-- quickly, softly, fondly-- and the radio host whimpered in the back of his throat. “Do you like the lab coat?”

Another blush darkened Cecil’s cheeks. He started stammering again, only to be silenced by a second kiss: longer this time, and deeper.

“Good,” Carlos said. “Because I like seeing you in it.”

Aislin tiptoed away, careful not to make a sound so as not to disturb them.

“So what’s up?” Danny asked her when she got back to the others. “You talk some sense into him?”

“No,” she said. “I didn’t have to.” But she pulled out her phone. “But I did get video.”


	4. After the elections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated M 
> 
> Cecil. Carlos. Hiram McDaniels. The entire liquor store at Ralph's. You do the math.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The long and short of it: a whole bunch of people I adore and admire got to talking about an idea for a crackfic. And when an unanswered prompt comes to my attention, I can't help myself.
> 
> You can find the prompts here: http://thief-in-the-dark.tumblr.com/post/72731396916/home-stuck-in-desert-bluffs

Cecil doesn’t remember exactly how he got into this situation. The memories of the previous night are mostly flickers and flashes: the election, the Faceless Old Woman’s victory speech, running into Hiram McDaniels in the liquor aisle at the Ralph’s, and then…

Well, then things get interesting.

Even through the aching hangover, he can see the marks that cover his body: first-degree burns with odd discoloration, friction burns from rubbing up against scales, bite marks that run so deep that he’ll need to make sure there’s no internal bleeding, and a long claw-slash that runs from his ribs to halfway down his thighs.

Carlos, not too far away, smells of charred hair and tequila, blinks dazedly and mutters and endless litany of ‘what the fuck happened last night’?

‘Fuck’ is a good word to describe it, actually. Most of the memory is still fuzzed from the several dozen drinks he had, but he remembers the climax. The green head roaring. The purple one thrown back in a keening cry. The red one shouted praises and promises of eternal adoration, the yellow threw back its head and spat fire at the ceiling, and the black one just went very wide-eyed and still.

The dragon in question is sprawled across the living room. Two tongues loll out of their respective mouths; one head is snoring; another seems to be awake and taking cover under one of his wings.

“God, Cecil!” Carlos suddenly cries-- Cecil, Carlos, and Hiram’s single conscious head all flinch at the noise. When Carlos speaks again, it’s at a whisper. “Cecil, you’re bleeding.”

“Thanks,” Cecil mumbles. “You too.”

“No. We should… hospital. We need to get you to a hospital. Make sure you’re okay.”

A swell of pride rises in Cecil’s belly (or that may be nausea-- it’s difficult to tell) on Carlos’ behalf: trust a scientist to be able to form coherent sentences so soon after that kind of night.

“Sorry about that,” Hiram says, peeking out from underneath his wing with a bleary yellow eye. “Got kinda carried away.”

“Iss fine.” Cecil waves him off. “Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

But Carlos crosses his arms in a way that is entirely too adorable. “No it’s not. Get in the Car, Cecil.”

“But--”

“Hospital.”

“But I’m--”

“Now.”

There’s another hissing flinch as they open the door to the bright desert sun, but Carlos half-drags Cecil to his car anyway.

The last thing they hear before the engine revs is warbling shout: “Call me!”


	5. Advanced Reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated G: 
> 
> The hardest part of reading advanced books isn't the vocabulary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a response to the question posed here: http://videntefernandez.tumblr.com/post/73639359487/it-turns-out-carlos-doesnt-read-books-hes-never-read

The hardest part of being well-read is not parsing advanced syntax and vocabulary.

(She tackles the former by repeating the sentences out loud until she can make sense of them, and the latter with a very large dictionary.)

It is not the Librarians standing between her and the Classics section.

(Just keep moving, keep a kukri handy, and leave a trail of mis-shelved books to distract them. Lean the call number of the book you want before you set foot inside, so you can grab it and run before they catch up to you.)

The challenge lies in the books themselves. But Tamika Flynn is not one to give up on a good book--even when it’s misbehaving.

(Her gas mask neutralizes the lethal gas; a lighter persuades a particularly vicious tome to reconsider biting her a second time. She’s already scorched the edges of the dedication page, just to show she means business.)

In time the books come to fear her as much as their keepers. Word spreads among the whispering pages, until they hurry to open for her like the warrior queen she is.

The gracious books are rewarded-- few library patrons read them so attentively, her eyes washing over every word-- even the ‘about the author’ blurb in the back that is so often neglected. She never dog-ears the pages or reads with smudgy fingers. In her hands the covers are never bent, the spines never creased.

Tamika Flynn loves books, and-- once they have reached an understanding-- they love her back.


	6. Don't fret, Precious, I'm here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: M
> 
> Isn't it funny how the stars disappear when the sun comes out?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for rendezvousramen.tumblr.com in response to episode 40.

Carlos hears the rhythmic beat of rotor blades long before he sees the yellow helicopters sweeping overhead.

He doesn’t turn around or take cover in the nearby bus shelter. He doesn’t even speed his pace. Just takes another bite of his municipally mandated slice of Big Rico’s (even if the City Council that gave that mandate is long gone and the law is all but ignored these days) and takes care to chew quietly.

There are three helicopters, and they land in a triangle around him. A woman climbs from the nearest one, wearing an expensive suit and a Joker-like grin. Over her head, the rotor blades are still whirling, kicking sand into her teeth. No wonder her smile’s so bright.

“Mr. Carlos,” she says with a voice like an overexposed photograph. “How lucky we could run in to each other!”

“Doctor,” he corrects mildly.

“Of course! How could I forget? _Doctor_. You really are such an intelligent man. A real shining star of the community.”

_Isn’t it funny how stars disappear when the sun comes out?_

Her smile turns steely. “Would you kindly step into the helicopter, _Doctor_? I have some business to discuss that I think you’ll find just delightful.”

Carlos squints past the whirling sand. Suited men and women are pouring out of the other helicopters, smiling just as wide.

He pushes his unfinished pizza into one of their hands. It’s more sand than gluten-free crust now, but there’s enough cheese left to leave a satisfying grease stain on the man’s jacket. Carlos wipes his hands on a napkin and pushes the glasses higher onto the bridge of his nose. “Lead the way.”

The StrexCorp thugs crowd him into the helicopter. They loom over him until he fastens his seat belt, and then they fill every remaining inch of space. He’s surprised by the power of the machinery-- all that extra weight and it’s barely struggling at all.

Of course, he doesn’t say as much.

The woman sitting across from him is talking-- praising his scientific endeavors, mostly, though she congratulates him on his discovery of John Peters, you know, the Impostor. Though she doesn’t say it properly. Nor does she mention that the Impostor nearly zapped his boyfriend into an alternate dimension.

He smiles blankly and glances out the window at the town stretched out below them, and runs the pads of his fingers over the tattoo on his wrist. It’s a thin, spindly tattoo, all letters and numbers and lines-- the chemical formula for serotonin. The more complex formula for oxytocin stretches across the opposite arm, but it’s more difficult to wake up than the other, and more dramatic when it does.

The tattoo shivers and slides pleasantly under his skin, poking out from under the sleeve of his lab coat just enough to register that Carlos isn’t alone. In a flash it signals the undulating tentacles wrapped around his arm, which rub up against the Rube Goldberg device that hides the scars on his chest, on and on and on, until all of the living ink is awake and alert underneath the cover of his clothes. It reminds him of the human body: the sensation of pain converted into electrical impulses, racing from dendrite to axon, nerve to nerve, until it explodes across the neurons of the brain. And then, once the pain is felt, processed, understood, the body is free to react.

But not just yet. He strokes the serotonin tattoo once more, and with a silent ripple the rest go still.

The tattoos were Cecil’s idea.

Ever since they’d started dating, Cecil had been worrying about him, checking in on him, fretting over the littlest details. Carlos couldn’t exactly claim to be surprised-- not when a near-death experience had marked the beginning of their relationship. Not when he still woke up drenched in sweat, visions of street cleaners and valentines and miniature rockets still vivid in his mind. The tattoos helped with those, actually. They’re as attuned to him as they were to Cecil before. When he gets anxious, they wash over his skin in long, soothing strokes; when he’s angry, they crackle with shared fury. When he grieves, they become as heavy and warm as a favorite coat.

At the moment, they’re tense with anticipation, wound so tight around his chest that it’s getting hard to breathe.

He keeps his eyes on the landscape. They’re over the community college.

“--so I’m sure you can understand why we’re interested in adding your substantial talents to our company’s resources.”

This again. How many times is she going to rephrase the exact same thing before she gets tired of saying it?

The woman turns her spiel to salary and insurance and benefits, but all Carlos can hear are the names of the people who have been run out of business when they refused to abdicate to StrexCorp, and lost their lives in the aftermath. The chanting of the masses as they huddle protectively around Tamika Flynn. The panic in Cecil’s voice when his supervisor tried to shut him down.

He spares another glance out the window. They’ve cleared the city limits. The helicopters are flying over the sand wastes now.

“So what do you say, _Doctor_?” The woman extends her hand to him. Her nails are sharp; he wouldn’t be surprised if the contract is meant to be signed in blood.

He doesn’t say a word. Instead he covers his wrist.

He can feel it pulse all across his body.  
The woman’s sand-blasted grin falters when the tattoos manifest into shadowy tentacles around him. It twists into a rictus of horror as they rend flesh from bone. The other passengers in the helicopter panic. Some leap to the sand wastes below. Others try to tackle Carlos, only to be ripped limb from limb. In seconds there’s nothing left of them except blood and gore.

Metal bends and caves under their power. The cockpit shrieks as it’s torn into pieces. The shrapnel goes flying, slices the rotors from the nearest helicopter, and it goes careening into the sand. The tentacles reach to the third and rip the blades from its tail like a child plucking petals off a daisy. Suddenly unable to steer, it flounders toward Radon Canyon.

All the while Carlos hovers in the air, safe and suspended within the protective embrace of the tattoos. Slowly they lower him to the ground, set him gently on the sand, and run their tendrils through his hair, before they return to their rightful place against his skin.

He draws the phone from his lab coat pocket. The screen is a frozen on a picture of a house being ripped apart by a hurricane-- as it always is after the tattoos manifest-- but it clears up after a quick reboot. As soon as his phone remembers its contacts list, he finds Cecil.

**When you’re done with work, could you come pick me up?**

**I’m in the sand wastes. Just follow the pillar of black smoke.**

**Also, what would you like for dinner tonight?**

**XOXO -- Carlos**


	7. When they come for me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated: T
> 
> "When they come for me, I'll be gone."

“I want you to leave.”

I practiced this in the men’s room mirror a thousand times, petting Khoshekh to keep my hands from shaking. They don’t shake anymore. My voice is even and calm. I feel like I’ve been hollowed out and filled with sand— one stubbed toe and I’ll split open and pour out all over the lab’s concrete floor.

Carlos— sweet, fragile, naive Carlos— gives me a patient smile. “Just let me finish this write-up and I’ll be done here,” he says. “How does Big Rico’s sound for dinner tonight?”

I have to explain. Of course I have to explain. Because Carlos is a scientist, and that means he needs details and reasons where other people only need to know that that’s the way it is.

“You don’t understand,” I say. “You need to collect your equipment, and pack your things, and leave Night Vale.”

Slowly Carlos puts down his clay tablet and stylus and stands up. He stands perfectly at eye level when he asks— ever the scientist— “Why?”

Because you didn’t believe me about the Street Cleaners until three of your scientists had been boiled into lye.

Because you didn’t believe me when I say we’re at war with an underground city until after they nearly killed you.

Because Old Woman Josie thought you were sweet, and her Angels protected you, and now they’re gone.

Because there’s no Apache Tracker to bring you back this time.

Because the agents of Strex are soulless and unfeeling and won’t be swayed by your dazzling smile.

Because I love you, and I’d rather lose you forever than watch you die again.

“Because you’re an outsider, and you can,” I say instead. “You won’t have that opportunity for very much longer.”

There’s a tension in the set of his shoulders. His face is a contradiction: lined with confusion and hurt, but open and vulnerable. His breathing is as carefully measured as the contents of his test tubes.

“Thank you for the offer, but it’s an opportunity I don’t intend to pursue.” His words are as practiced as mine, and I can’t help but wonder where he practiced that particular rejection. He’s rising to my challenge: we can shoot canned phrases at each other until the artificial sun goes dark.

“Carlos, please.” I close the distance between us, tangle my hands in his lab coat. I’m not too proud to beg. “You remember what happened to Lucy and Hannah— and they were just competition. Strex sees you as a threat to their bottom line. You have to go.”

"Absolutely not," he says. "Cecil, I understand what you’re trying to do,  but I’m not going anywhere. I love Night Vale,  and I love you. I’m staying, and that’s—"

He doesn’t have the chance to finish before he crumples, and I catch him in my arms. A single tentacle tips his head against my shoulder. There’s blood on its stinger, made pearlescent from venom.

I lower him gently to the floor, manifesting more tentacles to cradle his body. I know he won’t feel it, but I want to hold him. I want him to be comfortable.

I pull out my phone.

"Steve?  It’s Cecil.  No, he didn’t want to leave on his own."

I brace for the inevitable ‘I told you so’, but it doesn’t come.  Not for the last time today,  I am bitterly grateful. The last of the details are settled between us, and I end the call.

In larger doses, my venom could probably kill a man Carlos’ size, but I was careful. He’ll be unconscious for a while, maybe wake up with a hangover, but otherwise there’ll be no lasting damage.

I only wish I could say the same for the rest of what I’m going to do.

The lab coat and the soft flannel of his shirt come off easily in my hands. I’ve had plenty of practice undressing him, and most of those those times he was moving enough to make it a real challenge.

The memory makes my hearts squeeze. I dip down, pressing a kiss to his forehead before I turn him over.

My tentacles sweep over his back, the stingers bathed in ink. They scratch into the beautiful planes of his back, just deep enough to bring blood beading to the surface. I’m more than familiar with this process, but the sight wrenches my gut like the twist of a knife.

This is wrong. It’s a violation. It’s a betrayal of all the trust he’s so freely given me. It’s an abuse of that beautiful, perfect body.

But this is the way it has to be. I’d carve my own hearts out of my chest if it meant keeping him safe.

It only takes seconds for the sigils to bloom across Carlos’ back. As soon as they’re finished —  _almost_  finished— the tentacles sweep away, coming back with washcloths and bandages. This time I move slowly, carefully, memorizing every inch of him as I clean and bind the damaged skin.

He’ll be angry, once he realizes what I’ve done. His voice will grow louder with every sentence until he’s all but shouting, like his fury is a demonstration for the Sheriff’s Secret Police and anyone else who happens to be in audience. Usually I’m there to calm him down, to take him by the shoulders and explain until I say one of those things that makes him inexplicably break down into laughter, and then I hold him while he’s doubled over, wheezing for breath and giggling over some little fact that everyone knows except for him.

Except that won’t happen this time.

“I’m sorry, Carlos,” I whisper into his hair. “I’m so sorry.”

Reverently I slide his arms through his shirt sleeves and fasten the buttons over his chest. I only have time to kiss him once more before the door opens. Normally I’d feel some animosity for the balding, pudgy man who steps through, but I don’t have it in me anymore. He stops short when he sees us.

“Is he going to be okay?” Steve asks, nudging the bandage wrappers with his foot.

“It’ll be uncomfortable, for a while, but he’ll heal.” Deep breath. It isn’t finished yet. “Come here. There’s one more thing I need you to do.” Gently I turn Carlos over, supporting him with my tentacles, and pull up the back of his shirt. There’s one spot I left unbandaged, and the fresh tattoo is raw underneath. “This spot right here. When you get past the city limits, I need you to make a cut right there. Maybe a half inch. Make sure it leaves a scar. That’ll finish the seal.”

Steve cringes at the thought. “What will that do to him?”

I turn Carlos over again, careful not to put pressure on the wounds, and rise to my feet. “It’s a ward. He won’t be able to find his way back to Night Vale again.”

Steve opens his mouth to argue, and I cut him off.

“You know better than anyone how dangerous Night Vale is. Even without StrexCorp here. He’s better off gone.”

I don’t wait for him to reply before I carry Carlos to the car and gently lay him across the back seat. Under his head I set a bag of his personal belongings, and all the money I have that isn’t in StrexCorp scrip. Once he’s secure, I hide him beneath blankets and lighter articles of Steve’s luggage. Strex won’t be looking for him just yet, but I’m not about to make it easy on them.

“He might not forgive you for this,” Steve finally says, getting into the front seat.

My chest tightens.

“I know.”

Steve gives me a long, hard look. “This won’t end well for you, Cecil.”

“I know.”

He sighs. “I know you know. Just… take care of yourself until then. He’ll want to think you’re okay.”

My mouth twitches. I almost smile, and he almost returns it. “Drive safe.”

“Are you kidding? On  _these_  roads?” A faint, dying chuckle from him, an awkward wave, and then he turns the key in the ignition.

Within minutes the old Corolla is gone, and I trudge back inside the laboratory. I wait until I’m well out of sight of the windows before I sink to my knees.

 _He might not forgive you for this,_ Steve said. But that’s just it.

I don’t need him to forgive me. I need him to survive.


	8. Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another prompt: "i always though it would be cute if for some news report cecil has to interview marcus vansten and just keeps getting flustered because he (marcus) refuses to put some clothes on"
> 
> Well… you might think it’s cute. Carlos is inclined to disagree.
> 
> The ever-talented VidenteFernandez also replied to the prompt: http://videntefernandez.tumblr.com/post/66081931894/hey-so-im-not-really-sure-if-you-appreciate
> 
> I originally posted this one back in November, but it's fitting with my "Carlos is one spitball away from being a supervillain" thesis

Marcus Vansten is entirely too rich to feel this way. But no amount of money will fix this—he would know. He’s already tried taking a soothing bath in a pool of hundred dollar bills, and an hour later the blistering rash had spread to infect almost his entire body. He could barely see out of his swollen eyes; even without pain receptors, it hurt to speak.

He called in his private doctor, but that didn’t help. Doctor Whatever-His-Name was confused. He said the rash looked like poison ivy, but Night Vale was in the middle of a  _desert_. Even the Whispering Forest didn’t have any samples of the toxic plant.

And so Doctor Who-Gives-A-Poor-Shit called in what he called an expert. Some long-haired guy in glasses and a lab coat, who studied him the way barbarians might have stared at a fallen Roman general.

“Hello, Marcus,” he said. The familiarity didn’t faze the billionaire—everybody knew him, after all—but there was an edge to his voice that made Marcus’ skin crawl. “That looks painful.”

“Extremely,” Marcus muttered. “So fix it already! What do you think I pay you for?”

“You don’t, actually.” The scientist swabbed samples of the rash, the blisters, and the pus that seeped from most of Marcus’ body—all of it with entirely more force than was necessary. “My grants come from outside of Night Vale.”

He said it like a threat.

 “Can you fix me or not?”

“Your doctor will be able to send for some treated soap from outside of town to counter the effects of the urushiol oil. But even then, you’ll just have to wait it out. The skin around your face and genitals is more sensitive than around the rest of your body. It’s going to take longest there.”

“How long?” Marcus whined.

“A week. Possibly more. Time works differently in Night Vale.” The scientist pulled off his rubber gloves and adjusted his glasses. “Where did the rash begin?”

“Where do you think?” Marcus indicated the space between the center of his back and his thighs with swollen, oozing fingers.

“Too high to have been caused by your pants. But then, I take it you weren’t wearing any while you were exposed.”

“Hell, I don’t know!”

“You have an unfortunate habit of wandering around naked, Marcus. In that private library of yours, for example. And when conducting interviews with my boyfriend.”

Interviews? Interviews. Huh.

Oh yeah. Marcus had done an interview recently with that radio host guy. Name started with a C, or an S, or… whatever. God, the look on his face had been priceless, all flushed and fidgety. Marcus’ swollen face twisted into a grin. “You know he liked it.”

Abruptly the scientist leaned closer, his dark hair falling around his face like a hooded figure's cowl. “No. He really didn’t.” For a brief moment his voice was unforgiving and immovable, like the gravity of a dark planet lit by no sun.

For the first time in his long and wealthy life, Marcus was afraid.

The moment passed. The scientist adjusted his glasses with a sharp glint. “Like I said, the rash should clear within a few weeks. But I recommend you start wearing more clothing from now on. There are more unpleasant things than urushiol oil in Night Vale.” 


	9. Rules of the Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated: T/M, depending how you feel about darker stuff. There's mentions of violence and gore, but not detailed.
> 
> Carlos could be a supervillain, if he put his mind to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Girlzilla](http://archiveofourown.org/users/girlzilla/pseuds/girlzilla) requested some darker Carlos, so here you go! I hope it satisfies~

There are rules that Carlos obeys. They aren’t written anywhere-- written notes can be found, and that might lead to awkward questions-- except in bright neon letters inside his mind.

 

**1\. Flattery will get you everywhere**

When he’s dragged to an impromptu town meeting and asked to explain what he’s doing in their town, he doesn’t tell them the truth-- that the federal government has been turning a blind eye to their friendly desert community, that the rumors of what goes on here is enough to make loan sharks and investigators think twice about following him into the desert, that the mortality rate is already so high that a few extra deaths will go completely unnoticed. Instead he flashes that lovely little awkward smile that’s gotten him laid more times than he cares to calculate, and calls them the most scientifically interesting community in the US, and the crowd blushes and titters in response.

 

**2\. Shyness, not secrecy**

“DANGER” and “KEEP OUT” translate into “come on in, whatever is beyond these doors is probably fun and exciting!” when you’re dealing with children. “No comment” doesn’t actually deter pesky journalists, it just makes them dig deeper to find explanations for what you’re not telling them. Even the best-trained guard dogs can be befriended, and even the most skillfully-placed electric fence has a weak point somewhere to be exploited.

But Carlos has honed other skills.

Instead of tight-lipped gruffness, he opts for stammers and awkward blushes. When asked about his work, he explains the most mundane details in the most convoluted ways, muttering and stumbling over himself until the curious party gives up out of pity and second-hand embarrassment. He keeps his shoulders slumped and his voice high and nasally to support the illusion of the quintessential socially-inept nerd. He even gets a bad haircut, for the final touch.

The results of that last one are… remarkable.

He takes careful notes and makes himself even smaller as he observes.

 

**3\. Don’t let it get personal**

Cecil Palmer is the textbook example of all things Carlos should work to avoid: a talkative journalist with obsessive tendencies, close ties to the local police and government, and boundaries issues.

Damn if he isn’t cute, though.

 

**4\. Keep all relationships at arm’s length**

He only responds to Cecil’s advances when he’s confident in every detail of his persona, when there’s absolutely no chance of him slipping up and conflating dates or names. Even then, he deliberately avoids personal details.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says, but he catches himself before he missteps. “Yeah, that’s what I’ve been doing lately. Thinking. It’s part of being a scientist. What have you been up to?”

It’s too easy to get comfortable around Cecil, and that’s dangerous. He puts every effort into showing the radio host a bad time on their date-- he can’t help feeling a twinge of remorse when he does-- but at every turn his efforts are ruined by Cecil’s devotion.

It becomes a game, almost, and by the night’s end he’s enjoying himself so much that he rewards Cecil with a kiss-- just one, soft and chaste-- before he hurries inside.

On his way to bed, he shuts off the anti-matter machine in his lab. The experiment was a success, but he doesn’t see any need to take it further. After all, a town as welcoming and convenient as Night Vale is hard to come by, and he’d be a poor scientist if he let such a valuable resource go to waste.

Besides, he’s already making plans for a second date.

 

**5\. Never let anybody hurt you twice**

The pin retrieval area behind lane five at the bowling alley is boarded up, and the security cameras are hacked and given a looped feed-- because apparently Night Vale is one of the few places where security camera footage is actually examined in any detail-- and so the town is none the wiser.

But if anyone were to pull back the boards, they would notice a gaping cavity where the tiny underground city once stood. They would  notice the rubble of outlying buildings, crushed into gravel, in the suburbs of the tiny city.

If they were to look carefully in Carlos’ lab, they might find the city there, quiet and harmless, preserved under a bell jar full of chloroform. Its citizens are preserved-- some dissected, some taxidermied, some articulated into tiny skeletons, some preserved in clear resin.

If that hypothetical observer saw him, they might thank him for ending the war against the tiny city, and he would hang his head and give some somber speech about protecting his beloved Night Vale and how he’s not proud of what he had to do.

Or they might not, and he’ll find other ways of keeping them quiet.

 

**6\. Don’t be afraid to let things go**

One date turned into five and suddenly they’re dating and _they shouldn’t be_.

It leaves Carlos in a delicate situation. He can’t call the whole thing off-- jilted lovers have a bad habit of getting vindictive, and he doesn’t need Cecil digging for blackmail material-- and so he pours his energy into making Cecil dump him first. He flaunts bad table manners, he cancels dates without calling, he’s almost comically thoughtless and inattentive. All the while he monitors the radio with a spider’s attention to detail.

But what he finds isn’t sinister. Cecil’s habit of oversharing extends to their personal life, but he makes no investigations into Carlos’ scientific pursuits. In fact, he doesn’t mention them at all, except to praise his intelligence or to relay a message Carlos has given him to share.

He expects to hear annoyance and frustration when his name is mentioned on the radio-- instead he hears wistfulness on the verge of disappointment.

And still, for some reason, love.

His persona remains fixed in place-- he’s been in it so long that it’s become habit-- but the mind games stop after that.

 

**7\. Pissing contests are for chumps**

There’s a reason why Carlos is one of the most advanced in his field. His contemporaries have a nasty habit of donning absurd getups, hiring art students to design them logos, and calling out local celebrities like they’re pro wrestlers. And, being scientists and not actual trained combatants, they get pulverized, if not killed outright.

Others in his line of work hire themselves out to more ambitious forces, and then get all bent out of shape when they hit the inevitable creative differences.

For his part, Carlos has learned that avoiding attention is the best way of avoiding interference and scrutiny. His only trademark is the benign collection of lab coats he likes to wear. He even got his name legally changed to the unremarkable “Santos”, rather than the slightly more sinister “de la Muerta”.

He knows that the secret to a long and interesting life is learning to avoid confrontation.

But sometimes he can’t help himself.

He’s noticed signs of depression in Cecil lately. He tries to put on a cheerful facade for their dates, but he’s getting worse by the day. Most nights are spent out on the town, or flashing colorful chemical reactions out in the sand wastes to get Cecil’s mind off things, but more and more often they stay inside, Carlos whispering soothing words while his boyfriend sobs into his shoulder.

Amidst the tears he finds a name: Daniel. Cecil’s new supervisor, a metaphoric slave-driver and a literal machine.

A few lines of code, a few strategically-placed EMP triggers, and Daniel collapses in a puddle of motor oil, as do his next several replacements.

The human replacements aren’t difficult to take care of-- he paints a layer of neurotoxin across the keyboard of the supervisor’s computer, and it’s not long before they’re dropping like interns.

Perhaps he’s being too overt, because soon the new project manager comes asking about him. Her name is Lauren Mallard, and she walks on eggshells in Cecil’s presence. But she’s not careful enough with her words, and she has a bad habit of checking her emails while she walks. She really should pay more attention when she’s alone in a strange town.

Carlos, responsible citizen that he is, takes it upon himself to return her to her employers.

Her skeleton, however, he keeps for himself, cleaned and polished beside the silent city in his back room.

* * *

 

“Happy anniversary, Cecil.” Carlos kisses his boyfriend’s nose, bashful and blushing-- not out of deceit, but because he loves the fond squeak it always elicits from Cecil. “I got you something.”

“Oh, Carlos…” The radio host bites his lip, and for a moment he looks heartbreakingly sad. “I’m sorry, I didn’t--”

Carlos silences him with a finger to his lips. “Shh. It’s okay. I understand-- it’s been kind of a crazy year. But I got to spend it with you. And I wanted to thank you for that.”

He takes Cecil’s hand and leads him to the garage. A box is waiting for him there, and on top of it, an envelope. Cecil carefully opens it, and his lips part in surprise.

“Carlos,” he whispers. The paper makes a sound like a sigh as it slides out out of the envelope, revealing the title: LOT 37: CECIL PALMER. “How did you…?”

And Carlos knows, in that instant, that he could tell him. He could tell Cecil about the way StrexCorp tried to buy him over to their side, how they tried to tempt him with that conquest. He could tell them about the antiserum he took before setting foot inside that building, and about how silent it was by the time he left it-- as devoid of life as the city under the bell jar. He could tell Cecil everything, and Cecil wouldn’t judge him, or fear him, or love him any less.

That knowledge is the best gift Cecil could possibly have given him.

But all the same, Carlos bows his head and flashes the smile that made Cecil fall in love with him. “You know. Science.” 


	10. the storyteller

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wanders the American Southwest, looking for what he's lost.

Walk into almost any diner in the American Southwest, and if you’re lucky, you might see him.

Well, not any diner. He prefers local places-- those friendly side-of-the-road joints where the waitresses will let him linger for a few hours over a cup of coffee, where managers don’t ask questions when he offers to wash dishes for a quick buck, where people talk and stories are told.

He tells a lot of stories.

Sit down beside him, buy him a drink, or something to eat, and he’ll tell you some of them. He can weave a tapestry of stories, rich with detail and color and surprises. He’ll tell you about a cloud like a southern Aurora Borealis that decided to settle down and raise a family. He’ll tell you about a PTA meeting interrupted by pterodactyls. He’ll tell you about a city so tiny that when they waged war, their enemies often forgot they were still fighting.

He’ll tell you about a man with a golden voice and a heart like diamond.

Listen long enough and he’ll always come back to the same story, though, and he’ll run his rough hands through his silver-streaked hair, and he’ll stare into his coffee like he’s run out of tears and still waiting to cry.

He’ll tell you about a scientist who strayed into a friendly desert town, unlike and not unlike the one you’re in right now. He’ll tell you about how he feared, then loathed, then loved the strange little town, with its golden sands and its lovely people and its golden-voiced radio host. He’ll tell you how it stopped feeling like any other place could ever be home.

He’ll tell you how he packed a bag one day, intending to be gone for less than a week. But when he returned, the town was gone. The highway that led to its familiar streets had vanished, swallowed into the sands.

He’ll tell you how he circled the desert for days, then months, then years, searching for the road back to the town he called home. How he drove until he couldn’t keep his eyes open, and then slept on the side of the road, waiting to pick up the search again. How he asked at every town and every diner and every gas station, ‘has anybody heard of a place called Night Vale?’, with no reply.

He’ll tell you about the day his car stopped running, when he got out and walked into the desert in hopes of finding his home just over the horizon, and how the US border patrol found him half-dead from dehydration among the dunes and nearly had him deported.

These days he walks, or he hitchhikes, or he saves up money for a bus to take him to the next town. Everywhere he asks the same question of everyone he meets, with a voice as rough and worn as cracked oak: ‘have you ever heard of a place called Night Vale?’

He already knows the answer.

But he doesn’t stop asking.

Eventually the evening will wind down, and the stories will end. You’ll wish him luck in his search, and hand him a few crumpled bills. Once you’re out in the open night air you’ll admit you pity the poor man with his magical stories about a made-up place.

But at the same time-- and this you’ll never, ever tell-- you wish there was something you wanted as badly as he wanted to find his Night Vale.

 

 


	11. Just another merit badge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of sad CecEarl, because variety is the spice of life (and nothing can stop me from writing angst)

“So what badge are you working on tonight, Earl?” Cecil asks him.

Not ‘will you seriously be staying late after school again?’ or ‘why don’t I see you anymore?’ or ‘how many badges do the Boy Scouts actually  _have_?’

There is no annoyance or suspicion on his face— only the genuine interest that made him so popular with the rest of the school.

“Chainsaw juggling,” Earl says, and Cecil smiles and says “sounds fun!” and “see you tomorrow, then?” like that’s perfectly okay. Like Earl didn’t choose that merit badge specifically because he knew Cecil wouldn’t want to tag along, because chainsaws are loud and reek of burnt gasoline, and the radio intern’s ears are more suited to the musical stylings of the weather.

Earl watches his best friend turn and walk away, and he nearly stops him. Nearly tells him “never mind, I wasn’t all that interested in chainsaw juggling anyway.” And while he’s talking he’ll crowd Cecil backwards against a row of lockers, the metal wall rattling with spare ammunition when Cecil’s shoulderblades smack against it. Earl will lean against him, forearms propped against the lockers like something out of a cheesy fifties flick, barely a breath away but not quite touching. Maybe he’ll throw out a cheesy line of his own, something like “I’m a lot more interested in you,” and he’ll close the gap between them and finally, finally kiss him—

But then Cecil turns the corner. The chance is lost, and with it the temptation. Earl lets himself fall back against the lockers and slide to the floor.

He can’t do this anymore.

The first warning was the Voluntary Exile badge. He’d survived— that was a feat by itself— but the desert sun had burned him down to the freckles. And no matter how much pain he was in, he couldn’t get over the feeling of Cecil’s hands slathering cool, slick aloe against his skin. And if he was turned on— well, why not? He’d spent the past week without human contact, and now he was all hot and slippery with a another person’s hands all over him. Surely he’d feel just as turned on if it had been anybody else. The fact that it was his best friend was totally incidental.

That one time camping— that had been a dream. Entirely out of Earl’s control. And if in his sleep-addled state he’d thought it would be a good idea to actually try using those lines? Totally understandable. And sure, maybe touching himself while inhaling Cecil’s scent off the blanket, that had been going a bit far. But it was supposed to be a one-time thing.

Then came the Twister With Scorpions badge (Cecil argued that Earl’s hair counted for Right Hand On Red if a scorpion was nesting on the only red dot within reach; Earl dreamed for days about Cecil’s hands in his hair). Then came the Scout Fu badge (how many ways could he throw Cecil to the mat and pin him down?). And then the Skinnydipping In The Water Tower badge (whoever came up with that one has a sick sense of humor and should be ashamed of themselves).

These days Earl can barely look at his best friend without wanting to rip his clothes off. He can barely hold down a conversation between getting lost in daydreams and hiding the erections those fantasies bring on. And he’d like to blame it all on Cecil— declare that this wouldn’t be a problem if his best friend wasn’t so hot— but he can’t. Earl is a Scout. He was chosen for the honor because he’s supposed to be disciplined and strong and  _better than this_. But one look at Cecil and he turns into putty.

With a groaning sigh, he pulls open his locker once again. Only seventy-eight more days until graduation. Seventy-eight more days of making up excuses and avoiding Cecil’s eyes and pursuing the least provocative merit badges in the book.

Yeah.

He can do that.


	12. Bloodstone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bloodstone circles aren't just part of Night Vale's religion-- they keep the town from crumbling into eldritch horror. When StrexCorp banned bloodstone circles, they sealed their own fate, and Night Vale's fate as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm currently ill, so I apologize if this lacks anything remotely related to coherency. I've been toying with this idea for a little while now, and I had to get it written and posted before the new episode aired. If it doesn't make a lot of sense, just let me know and I shall do my best to fix and/or explain.

In another life, another town, another relationship, Carlos might have waited. After all, he was a scientist, and the erratic behavior of his equipment was scientifically significant. He was accustomed to the constant rattle of the earth going completely unfelt by the populace, but the seismographs in his lab were leaping off the scale-- some of them literally-- and the earth under his feet was shaking and shuddering like it was going into anaphylactic shock.

But all of that got pushed to the back of his mind when his phone started trilling Cecil’s personalized ringtone.

Cecil always texted-- especially now, especially in the middle of his show. There was no way he’d interrupt a broadcast unless it was important.

Carlos grabbed onto the edge of a door frame for support and pulled the phone to his ear.

“Cecil?”

“Carlos! You’re-- thank the gods, you’re okay.” Despite the twinge of relief, there was undisputable panic in his voice. Terror, beyond the existential dread that was so baseline in Night Vale.

“Cecil, are you all right?”

There was a giggle on the other end of the line, high-pitched and hysterical.

“Cecil!?”

“Carlos, I--” His voice broke into a whimper. “Carlos, I need you to come to the station right away. I need you--” His voice grew suddenly quiet, barely audible over the shaking furniture. “I love you.”

The phone went dead, and Carlos’ heart threatened to stop in his chest.

All other priorities dissolved and he raced for the door. His equipment went unchecked, his lab unlocked, as he all but dove into the driver’s seat of his car.

The earthquake was getting worse by the second, the ground lurching and bucking in a way that might have had his past self worrying about the car’s suspension, but that didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except getting to Cecil.

Great cracks were opening up in fractal patterns across the roads. Buildings were falling around him, split in half as their foundations were wrenched apart underground. The world was cast into shadow as the sun was blotted out by a sea of yellow helicopters, carried by an unholy wind and the roar of rotor blades.

He could see the station ahead, its bloodstone doorway the only point of stillness among the chaos. It was just ahead, he was almost there, almost to Cecil--

A great fissure opened up just ahead, yawning wide across the road and swallowing one corner of the Arby’s, and he was forced to swerve off the road to avoid driving head first into its maw. There was no driving past that, and it would take too long to find a way around.

Decision made. He rolled out of the car and started running. More fissures were opening up around him, and the ground was pitching so violently that he was barely making any headway, but he had to keep moving. Had to get to Cecil.

What if he was trapped-- what if something had fallen on him-- what if he was alone and terrified in this cataclysm-- what if he was hurt, bleeding, dying--

Carlos crushed the thought before it could get any further. That wasn’t going to happen. He was going to get to Cecil if it killed him.

His head was pounding. His eyes were stinging. His ears were ringing. His vision was going red-- but none of that mattered, because the station was just ahead, just a little bit further. He gathered himself up and broke into a mad sprint, throwing his arms out to catch himself against the doorway.

The great stone doors parted under his touch-- which didn’t make sense. He hadn’t had a chance to prick his finger yet. He glanced down, and found great red smears under his palms. On his fingers. His hands were covered in blood.

When did that happen?

“Carlos!” Cecil’s voice pulled him from his confusion. “Carlos, thank the Masters, you’re here--”

Cecil was alive-- he was okay-- he wasn’t lost under rubble and rebar-- he wasn’t--

“Carlos!” Again that sound of panic, but it seemed to come from far away. Cecil was over him all of a sudden. Had he gotten taller?

No. He was just standing. And Carlos was on the floor.

When…?

Cecil gathered him into his arms, babbling incoherently-- or maybe Carlos just couldn’t understand it. He tried to help, to hug his boyfriend back and reassure him that everything would be okay, but his arms didn’t want to obey him. Neither did his legs. Everything was red and Cecil looked so scared and then--

Then everything went dark.

* * *

Reality was coming apart at the seams, dimensions cracking and crumbling without the bloodstone circles to keep them stitched together.

The townspeople huddled in their homes, or ran, or held each other and prayed. And Outsiders-- unacclimated to the churning of broken existence that was so commonplace in Night Vale-- they bled, maddened and shrieking, their fragile bodies mangled by things they could not comprehend.

“It’s going to be all right, Carlos,” Cecil whispered, carrying him into the shelter of his recording booth. “You’re going to be fine. I’m going to keep you safe. Everything’s going to be okay.”

He pulled Carlos’ face against his chest and covered his ears with his arms, trying hard not to think about the warm wetness seeping through his clothes. There was nothing Cecil could do about the blood pouring from Carlos’ ears and nose and seeping from his eyes like tears, but he could stop the damage from getting any worse.

Time and space folded in on themselves around the station, giving him an unobstructed view of the destruction. Buildings collapsed. Roads ruptured. The skyscrapers that filled Desert Bluffs toppled in a shower of steel and glass.

And as it happened, Cecil narrated.

He described Tamika Flynn and her army of missing children descending from the sky in stolen helicopters and appropriated bloodstone circles, their voices raised in chant, and Cecil called upon Night Vale to join them. To save themselves. To save the town.

The Glow Cloud stretched itself wide even as it began to dissolve, claiming the consciousness of those too busy screaming to help and dragging their tongues into the familiar rhythm of old, sacred words.

Cecil added his own voice to the chants, magnified a thousand times over through the speakers of countless radios.

The great obelisk fell, shattering the obsidian wall of the Dog Park, and hooded figures poured from its blackened depths. They reached skeletal fingers into the snarled fabric of reality and _pulled_

\--Cecil curled around Carlos, his chanting little more than a desperate sob--

and then it all unraveled like a tangled skein of yarn.

* * *

Carlos was pulled out of unconsciousness by a feeling like a hangover. Every inch of him ached and throbbed. The world was dark and hot, and he could barely breathe--

No. Wait. His head was covered by something.

It took him a few moments of fumbling, and finally he managed to pry a pair of arms from around his head. He’d been lying in the ground, his face clamped against a bloodstained shirt.

Cecil’s bloodstained shirt.

“Oh god,” Carlos croaked. He dove on the unconscious man, taking his pulse, checking his airways, checking his vitals in every way he knew how. “Please be all right-- I got here as fast as I could, I swear-- I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to pass out-- please please please wake up-- Cecil-- God, Cecil, please--”

In his arms, Cecil began to stir. His breathing hitched. His eyes fluttered. A weary smile played at his lips, and it was the most beautiful thing Carlos had ever seen.

It didn’t matter that he was crying, or that the tears stung more than they rightfully should have. All that mattered was Cecil was okay, and he was right here, and he wasn’t dead.

A soft hand brushed his cheek. “Dear Carlos. Are you all right?”

“Fine,” Carlos sobbed. “I’m fine. What about you? Where does it hurt? We should get you to a hospital. Do you think an ambulance can get to us on these roads?”

“Don’t worry about that,” Cecil said. “I’m tired. That’s all.”

“But you need a hospital. All this blood…”

Cecil shook his head. “We’ll go together. How does that sound?”

Carlos nodded. Without the spike of adrenaline keeping him afloat, he was starting to remember just how awful he felt.

Cecil graced him with a beatific smile. “You look tired. Lay down with me?”

There were better places to lie down than on the cold floor of the radio station’s recording booth, surrounded by dried blood and broken glass, in questionable states of physical soundness.

But they were both alive, and they had each other.

Everything else could be sorted out later.  

 

 


	13. Personality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated E for sexytiems
> 
> In which Carlos meditates on the subject of tentacle sex.

To be entirely honest, Carlos had never expected to fall in love with a man who had tentacles. Sure, he’d watched anime as a teenager, but among his crowd tentacle porn was more of an inside joke than it was a fantasy to entertain.

When he met Cecil, he fell in love with his voice, his curiosity, his boundless enthusiasm. He hadn’t even known about the tentacles until the first time they had sex-- and in the heat of the moment, he’d been too occupied with the way Cecil _screamed_ to register anything unusual was going on. After that-- well, Cecil didn’t seem to find anything weird about them, and this was Night Vale, after all.

So Carlos employed his hard-won coping mechanism: he rolled with it.

Which wasn’t to say he didn’t pay attention to the tentacles when they manifested. He studied them with scientific fervor, narrating his observations into the voice recorder at his side. The recordings weren't actually much good, scientifically-- it was never long before Cecil’s heavy breathing and low, hungry moans drowned out Carlos’ words-- but they made one hell a soundtrack when Carlos was in the mood for late-night masturbation.

There were twelve tentacles in total: the four that comprised Cecil’s genitalia, and an additional eight that manifested from his tattoos and seemed to originate on his back. They ranged between five and ten feet in length, with a maximum thickness roughly analogous to the human arm, and comparable strength to the limb.

It didn’t take Carlos long to notice the tentacles’ different… _functions_ , perhaps was the most scientific way of phrasing it, but it didn’t sound right. They were particularly attuned to different moods and different tasks. But even though he knew better, he couldn’t help thinking of them as having different personalities.

And it wasn’t too long before he started giving them names.

They weren’t distinct from Cecil, or more important than him, but they were a part of him.

“It’s like the elements in the body,” he’d explained to his boyfriend one night, while the Glow Cloud lit up the sky in the distance. “We’re all made up of trillions of atoms, and each of them has its own unique properties and functions, but they all come together to make up a cohesive whole. To make you.”

Seven billion individuals lived on this earth (more, if multi-verse theories turned out to be true), and somehow Carlos had managed to defy all laws of probability and find the one man in all of existence who found that romantic. He kissed him gently, sweetly, but the tattoos rising from his skin told a different story.

The thickest and strongest of the set wrapped around his thigh, squeezing so hard it made his toes tingle. He called it Fe-- for iron, for strength, and for the faith that it wouldn’t squeeze too hard and crush his femur into powder. Its sister tentacle, Penny, was wrapped around the other leg: not quite as strong, as massive, or as independent, it seemed to follow Fe’s motions the way the fourth finger of the human hand follows the motions of the third.

Phosphorus was his name for the most energetic of the tentacles, which rushed all over his body to pet and smooth and cradle before moving on, usually stripping off his clothes as it scurried from one stretch of exposed skin to the next. If Phosphorus was the overexcited dog of the bunch, then Carbon was the attention-starved cat: it clung and petted and rubbed itself all over him, silently begging to be touched some more.

But Carbon’s gentle sweetness only provided a counterpoint for Diablo, which twisted and pinched and yanked at his hair until he was gasping, and still it went further, like it took some kind of perverse joy out of watching him writhe and beg.

The final three, though, seemed to be designed purely to satisfy.

Long, slender Kay seemed to be positively sex-obsessed. Cecil had to keep a constant eye on it, or it would try to wriggle past his belt and into his pants, to stroke lovingly at his entrance-- regardless of where they were or how many people might possibly see. When he did allow it free reign, Kay was always quick to work him open and slip inside, finding his prostate with a master’s ease.

Cal had been named as a joke: Cal was short for calcium, which was a major element in the human skeleton, which was fitting because it had a particular affinity for playing with Carlos’ penis. It hadn’t seemed nearly so funny by the time he’d gotten through explaining the pun to Cecil-- at least, not until Cecil started laughing so hard he collapsed, gasping “b-boner! Carlos, you’re a genius! Boner!” between fits of hysterics.

Perhaps his favorite, though, was Gen-- for oxygen, for that precious element it seemed to love denying him. It always snuck up on him in the heat of sex, when he was already wild with passion, and traced his lips before it slid in through the corner of his mouth. It was just thinner than an erect cock, and irresistibly sweet with its own lubrication-- sucking on its length was practically a compulsion. But it dove further than any cock he’d ever taken, sliding down his throat, soothing away his gag reflex, blocking his trachea, and oozing sweet hot liquid into his stomach.

If he could have, Carlos would’ve howled in ecstasy. His senses were overwhelmed with Cecil-- the air was saturated with his shouts of pleasure, his sweet lubricant was all Carlos could taste or smell, his gorgeous writhing body was all he could see, those clever tentacles were pushing and pulling and twisting and massaging like a team of professionals, and he could feel his lungs burning and his mind fuzzing from lack of air.

And all of it-- all of it was Cecil. Only Cecil who could take him apart and leave him trembling from pure pleasure.

He’d never had a boyfriend with tentacles before. Now he didn’t know how he could ever go back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a lot of fun to research. The names correspond with essential elements in the human body, and specifically to their chemical properties or the specific functions they fulfill in biological processes. Because I'm a nerd like that.
> 
> Fe - Iron (Fe), self-explanatory  
> Penny - Copper (Cu), named for copper's role as an electron donor and assisting iron in functioning properly in the body  
> Phosphorus - Phosphorus (P), an ingredient in ATP (a power source in biological processes)  
> Carbon - Carbon (C), because carbon is noteworthy for being able to form bonds with nearly everything  
> Diablo - Sulfur (S), which is important to the body but capable of burning it in too high of quantities  
> Kay - Potassium (K), vital in passing electrical signals between nerves  
> Cal - Calcium (Ca)  
> Gen - Oxygen (O)


	14. Connection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated E
> 
> A smutty moment between Rochelle the Scientist and Marcus Vansten the Billionaire

Rochelle is a scientist, and as such, she’s not one for self-delusion.

She understands that Marcus Vansten is an absolute, honest-to-Tyson asshole, so self-obsessed that he rivals most black holes with his ability to claim and consume. But like all black holes (except for that one behind the Moonlite All-Nite Diner, which may in fact be a white hole going through an identity crisis), she can’t deny that Marcus has a certain gravity. It’s undeniable and inescapable, and she’d be an uneducated idiot if she tried to pretend she wasn’t drawn to him.

Call it evidence of evolution: anyone with such an utter lack of charisma has to have something else to make up for it-- otherwise they won’t reproduce, and their genetic line ends with them. Judging by the very large, very nude portraits that line the halls of his mansion, the Vansten line survived by being absurdly rich and panty-droppingly gorgeous.

Oh, and really, _really_ good in bed.

_Thank you, Darwin._

You’d think such a singularity of narcissism would be a greedy lover-- in, out, and huffing on a cuban cigar in the time it takes to read a haiku-- but he’s not. Maybe it’s because he takes such pride in his body-- maybe because his self-absorption requires that he be the best lay any of his partners ever had.

She doesn’t ask, and he doesn’t say. And currently, his mouth is otherwise occupied. He’s left dollops of caviar across her body-- in the hollow of her clavicle, in the space between her breasts, in the swell just beneath her belly button, in the crease of her thighs-- and he’s retracing his steps, playing connect-the-dots with his tongue, licking every delightfully chilly morsel off her skin.

Beside the bedside splashes a waterfall of blood-red wine. As he comes back up for air, he draws a crystal goblet off the bedside table and dips it under the flow. Wine trickles like rubies down the side of the glass, staining the golden bedsheets as he brings it to her lips, but he doesn’t seem to care. Rochelle has a sneaking suspicion that the sheets are thrown out after each use instead of being washed, but right now she’s beyond the point of worrying about his laundry.

The wine is rich and delicious, just the perfect blend of bitter and sweet. It dances on her tongue on the way down and leaves her just a little bit giddy-- not quite drunk, not yet, but she might be if he keeps this up all night. He pulls in close and kisses her deep, tasting the wine off her tongue, and she tastes caviar and fine chocolates on his.

Her hands tangle in his hair-- Bill Nye’s ballsack, what kind of shampoo does he use to get it so soft?-- and his wander, one kneading her breast, the other wrapping around her waist. It’s a gentle touch. If she didn’t know better, she’d almost call it tender.

Rochelle wraps her legs around his waist and twists, rolling them across the expanse of the bed until he’s pressed into the sheets beneath her, and starts trailing kisses of her own down his neck.

If she were an anthropologist she might call this a ritual-- the way her lips trace paths down his chest and to his stomach, the way his long fingers tangle in her dark, curly hair. She gets just close enough to smell the unique musk of genitalia when his grip tightens in her hair, his limbs do something that she’s not sure is anatomically possible outside of Night Vale, and he rolls them both again until he’s on top of her again.

She throws him a pout-- that’s another part of this strange ritual-- but he’s not looking at her face at the moment. Believe it or not, she happens to enjoy giving blow jobs. She likes the taste and musk, enjoys the variety that vaginal penetration doesn’t always provide, loves the ability to finger herself while she watches her partner come undone.

Maybe that last part is why Marcus is so adamantly against it. For all his exhibitionism and swagger, he’s remarkably shy. The only one she’s ever seen him open up to is his assistant Jake-- when anyone else comes close, he deflects.

And holy Hawking, does he deflect.

At the moment he’s warding off her blow job with one of his own. His lips graze her labia, his tongue swirling delicately around her clitoris. And his fingers-- _sweet Goodall, those fingers_ \-- are reaching inside of her, honing in on her G-spot with expert precision.

She’s writhing underneath him, panting and swearing and dragging her nails through that obscenely soft hair, and he’s fucking humming into her core like she’s a musical instrument, and _oh_ \--

Her back arches and her hips tighten around his head, pulling him in and holding him close as she rides the waves of the orgasm. The force of it leaves her dizzy, and she’s still in a daze when she feels him enter into her, thrusting a few times before he comes across her stomach.

She has enough presence of mind to pull him down next to her and holds him close.

Neither of them would call it a cuddle. Neither of them speaks. They’re both perfectly confident the other had a good time, and that’s all either of them asked from this meeting. Orgasm stimulates brain functions, increases elasticity of the skin, cures headaches, alleviates pain, and relieves stress-- and that’s all the excuse either of them needs to keep meeting like this.

The fact that it also brings with it a sense of closeness-- of connecting, for one moment, to another lonely human being--

Rochelle doesn’t say a word.

That wouldn’t be very scientific. 


	15. Animal Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened to Khoshekh's Kittens? (Warning: spoilers for Episode 47)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shamelessly ripped from an anonymous question sent to VidenteFernandez:
> 
> Is anyone else worried about Khosheck? No Cecil. No Carlos. No one to feed him or take care of him. And what about the kittens who are still in the bathroom? What happens when Kevin decides to redecorate in there, and he doesn't want the kittens where they are?

The bathroom was, to put it bluntly, an eyesore. 

The walls had been carved open, the pipes sliced just so to unleash several streams of water. The constant drip was dissolving the drywall, and mold had started to fester along the edges of an eternal puddle. 

The mirrors, no longer covered, had been shattered into a rain of glass. Cans of cat food lay sprawled in uneven piles on the floor— evidence of the interns who had been sneaking contraband in there, no doubt. Those would no longer be a problem. Of course, with the interns away at the company picnic, there was nobody to secretly clean the litter boxes, and the reek of ozone and venom was building up to join the mold in a horrible miasma. 

Animal Control was sent in to redecorate, of course. As were several StrexPets(tm). But it seemed the kittens had learned from the failings of their father. 

The room was redecorated, but the kittens remained exactly where they were, snarling through mouthfuls of biomachine and biohazard disposal engineers. 

They kept snarling as the bathroom door was bricked up, one piece at a time. And after the first four bricklayers were dragged screaming through the half-sealed entryway, the rest of the crew finally figured out a way to finish the job out of reach of the kittens’ grasping tendrils.

They kittens are still snarling.

Lauren can hear it every day as she trudges into the radio station. The unholy shrieks follow her home, plague her dreams until wakes up and her own screaming joins their howl.

She hasn’t slept more than four hours a night in weeks now. Her efficiency is flagging. She’s seeing things that aren’t there. And other things, which don’t need to be there to be seen: the displeasure of her benevolent employers. 

They are very disappointed in her. They’ll be taking disciplinary action any day now.

Every day she looks at the brick wall where the bathroom door used to be, still rumbling with the growls of hungry kittens.

And she wonders. 


	16. Day 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've been having some serious writers' block, so I opened myself up to prompts. Rileywit suggested a fic on Dana's first day as Mayor.

There wasn’t much left of Outgoing-Mayor Pamela Winchell when she handed Dana the effects of office. Sure, she was there bodily, but she looked… thin. Stretched. Like she didn’t have enough skin to stretch over her bones, and it pulled back in all the wrong places. 

"heRE you ARE," she said, in a voice that Dana definitely didn’t remember from past press conferences or irate voice mails to Cecil. "GOod riDDANce." 

"Er… thank you," Dana said, trying not to drop the armful of official signs and seals: the key to the office, the keys to the Secret Doorways to Nowhere, the official Mayoral Bloodstone Circle, the official Mayoral Three-Liter Decanter of Gin, the golden pen that was officially exempt from the ban on writing utensils, a tribal-looking mask that was almost certainly cursed, and a purple feather duster ("WhatEVER you do, DON’T lose the FEATHerdustER."). It took some fumbling, but Dana managed to set the whole lot down onto the Mayoral desk. 

She looked around the office—  _her_  office (wow, that would take some getting used to)— and poked her head out the door. Trish Hidge was still standing where Dana had left her, her back so straight it looked almost painful. 

Deep breaths, Dana. You can do this.

"Trish?" she said. 

Vaguely Dana wondered if a person could get whiplash from turning so quickly. “Yes, Madam Mayor?” 

"Please schedule a press conference for this evening."

"Yes, Madam Mayor." Trish hesitated. "Before the City Council swears you in, or after?" 

Yes, there was still that. The thought made Dana blanch. “Before, I think. I don’t know what kind of shape I’ll be in when they’re finished.”

"Mayor Winchell still had most of her arms when she finished getting sworn in," Trish said. 

"That’s… encouraging," Dana said. It really wasn’t. "I’ll be in my office. Let me know if I’m needed." 

"Yes, Madam Mayor." 

Sure, she’d told Trish to schedule the conference, but Dana wanted to email Cecil about it personally. He’d been her only contact with Night Vale for so long, and he’d been a real friend to her. It wouldn’t be right to let him get lassoed into a group email without another word. 

She’d barely gotten started on the email when Trish rapped at the door.

"Madam Mayor, Old Woman Josie’s… friends… are here to see you." 

"Show them in," Dana said. 

The line of angels that filed into the office might have intimidated her once, but not anymore. They were absolutely petite compared to the masked giants in the desert— a fact she could say with absolute certainty, since she’d had the chance to compare them side by side. 

She smiled brightly. “Hello Erika, Erika, Erika, Erika,” she said, nodding at each angel in turn. “It’s wonderful to not-see you all today.” 

THANK YOU, said the nearest angel. WE WISH TO CONGRATULATE YOU ON YOUR POLITICAL VICTORY.

"Thank you," she said. "But I didn’t even campaign."

THE GORGE CHOSE CORRECTLY. YOU WILL BE A GREAT MAYOR. IT IS ORDAINED.

NO PRESSURE OR ANYTHING, added the nude angel at the far end of the line. 

Dana suppressed a giggle. 

BUT THAT IS NOT THE ONLY REASON WHY WE HAVE COME, said the first, a bit more pointedly than before. The other two glared at the nude angel with all of their many, many eyes. IT IS TIME TO BESTOW UPON YOU INFORMATION. PRIVILEGED INFORMATION.

IT IS TIME, the angels all said in unison. FOR YOU TO LEARN ABOUT THE HIERARCHY OF THE ANGELS. 

* * *

 

By the time the angels left— taking their flow charts, dry-erase boards, and dioramas with them— the hall in front of Dana’s office was crowded with Hooded Figures. Behind them stood the Sheriff, his miter skewed and his foot tapping Morse code messages like “I’m bored” and “Can the damn angels be any slower?” and “they always lie anyway”. Behind him  were several suit-wearing agents from the Vague-but-Menacing Government Agency… and the line went on. 

"Oh dear," Dana whispered. "Trish, give me five minutes." 

Hastily she finished and sent her email and turned her notebook to a clean page, just in time for the Hooded Figures to glide into her office. 

"Hello there," she said. 

And in unison, the Hooded Figures reached up and pulled off their hoods.

* * *

 

"Madam Mayor?" Trish knocked on the door again. "Madam Mayor?" 

Dana groaned. “Please tell me there’s nobody else in that hallway.” 

"No, Madam Mayor," Trish said. "But the journalists are gathering at the front steps for your press conference." 

"Fantastic." Dana scraped herself off her desk. For a job that demanded so little physical labor, it had left her exhausted. "Will tomorrow be like this?" 

"Oh, no," Trish said. "Tomorrow your official duties begin. Of course, you’ll need to preside over official contracts between the… ahem… new owners of StrexCorp, its lower administrative staff, and those individuals who are set to regain ownership of their homes, businesses, and selves. And there’s also the matter of the site of the Company Picnic, which needs to be demolished, and you need to meet with contractors on that matter. And then—"

"Tell you what," Dana sighed. "Write it up into an agenda and I’ll look at it tonight." Assuming she was still conscious, of course. 

* * *

 

She met Cecil in private before the press conference. He hugged her tight and told her how proud he was of her, how great a job he was sure she’d do, how much she deserved this honor, and he’d be by later tonight to help her mother and brother move into the Mayoral mansion. She hugged him back, and thanked him, and promised him that he would always be welcome for dinner. She didn’t say how sorry she was that Carlos couldn’t be here, though he understood her perfectly. 

* * *

 

In retrospect, she’d picked the wrong shoes for this. The fancy heels she’d selected were very sharp and distinguished-looking, and they were even scorpion-proof, but by the end of the press conference she was in agony. Halfway through the very long, very dry, very difficult-to-say oath of office, she was ready to chuck her shoes through a window. By the time she gave the customary sacrifice at the bloodstone circle, she had half a mind to draw the blood from her blistered feet. 

And when she said her final vow, she was just thinking that she would do just about anything to take the goddamn pressure off her poor, agonized feet. 

The oath was said, the ceremonial gong was struck, the sacrifice was made: she was officially, irrefutably Mayor.

And in that moment, she turned into a horse. 


	17. Celebrity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've been having some serious writers' block lately, so I opened myself up to prompts. In-thoughts-not-breaths suggested: "WtNV: Janice and the Girl Scouts at Parade Day with Tamika Flynn"

"All right, everybody," Tamika said. "Are we good to go?"

"YES MA’AM," came the roar, so loud and proud it echoed off the walls of Skeleton Gorge. 

"Then load up! We leave at oh-nine-hundred." Just in time for the setting sun. The poetry of the moment wasn’t lost on Tamika or her book club. 

She marched through the ranks, adding last-minute encouragements and checking to make sure everything was in order. In the middle of one row, Shae Green and Kamala Misra were struggling to help Janice Carlsberg into the helicopter cockpit. They weren’t the only ones having trouble— the cockpit was impossibly high off the ground, and step stools were already being passed between the groups of helicopter pilots and their backup. The stools hadn’t yet reached this helicopter.

"Need some help?" Tamika asked.

Janice bobbed her head. “I— maybe? We’re having a bit of trouble.”

"All you need is some good leverage," Tamika said, hoisting herself up into the cockpit with an acrobat’s ease. It was a skill she’d refined hunting Librarians through the stacks. Bracing herself against the frame of the cockpit, she reached down, locking her grip around Janice’s wrist as Janice did the same with hers. "One, and two, and—"

With a fluid grace, Kamala and Shae lifted Janice out of her chair. The younger girl wrapped her other arm around Tamika’s shoulder, and for a moment she hung like that, suspended a good six feet in the air.

"I’ve gotcha," Tamika said softly.

"I know." There was no fear in Janice’s voice— only awe. "You’re amazing, you know that? I mean, yeah, you have to know. But you are."

Tamika snorted and eased Janice into the pilot’s seat. “Yeah, but I don’t know how to pilot a helicopter. And I hear you’re one of the best there is.” 

Janice grinned wide. “Damn straight.” And then she burst into giggles.

Janice had been with the Girl Scouts back in the Summer Reading Program last year, so Tamika hadn’t had a chance to see her in action during the melee— according to rumor, she’d been the one to start paper-macheing recommendations and elastic into crossbows, and afterward she’d boasted deadly accuracy with the projectiles. She was a legend in her own right— so it was so weird to see her all star-struck and giggly now.

But that was because Janice was more than just a warrior and a Girl Scout. She was a kid. 

Sometimes Tamika got so wrapped up in this war that she forgot that she was still a kid, too. Maybe she’d need to dip back into the children’s section at some point. Or at least the YA section. She’d heard some good things about  _The Hunger Games_. 

Maybe later. When all this was done, maybe Janice could recommend a few titles.

Yeah.

Tamika smiled. 

That sounded nice.


	18. Can Anybody Hear Me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna rate this one T/M for violence.
> 
> WoodChuckVirus requested: "Kevin’s surrender to Strex and the Smiling God… ;__;"
> 
> I seem to have been channeling some of the original _I Am Legend_ in this one...

"Desert Bluffs?" His voice was hoarse. "Desert Bluffs, if any of you are still out there— if any of you are still fighting— we’re here. We stand together. We stand united. So don’t give up hope, Desert Bluffs. We’ll make it through this." 

There was something else he’d meant to say, wasn’t there? 

He couldn’t remember. His thoughts kept sliding away to some dark corner of his head, hidden and unreachable. 

"How long ago did they shut off the water?" he asked the microphone. "Does anybody remember?" 

It had been… a few days ago, right? A while back. Before the last of the water had been drained out of the pipes in the sinks, and the coffee maker, and the break room. Kevin had tried to ration it, but he was so thirsty. So very thirsty.

He knew how to get more. It would be simple. Just… go outside. Past the windows that had been covered with old newspapers and old reports. Past the bloodstained streets. Out into the world where everything was transparent and clear.

"Xavier, if you can hear me…" he choked. He wanted to cry, but there wasn’t enough moisture left in him to produce tears. "Xavier, if you can hear me, I love you. I hope you made it out. I hope you’re okay. I hope…" 

His phone rang, and he scrambled to unplug it from the wall. “Xavier? Xavier, are you—”

The phone read  _Sylvia_. The screen brightened with the picture of a ten-year-old girl with a sweet, shy smile.

She’d never called him, before the Smiling God came to Desert Bluffs. For obvious reasons— sign language didn’t exactly translate very well over speakers. But her texts had always brightened his day. 

But now…

The girl who called him always had such a bright, wide, toothy smile. She said she was happy. Happier than she had ever been before. She said she was glad she didn’t have to use all those wasteful hand motions and text messages to communicate anymore. That speech was so much more efficient.

But Sylvia had been so happy before. There was no reason for her not to be— there wasn’t anything wrong with her. She had been perfect. Absolutely perfect. 

He picked up his phone with trembling hands. 

"Hello, Uncle Kevin!" came a voice that was so bright it hurt his ears. "I’ve missed you. Won’t you come out and see me?" 

"Sylvia," he croaked. "Sylvia, please— if you’re still my Sylvia—"

"Why wouldn’t I be, silly?" she laughed. Her laugh sounded wrong. Manic. Borderline hysterical.

"Sylvia, please understand. I can’t come out."

She made a gasping, affronted sound. “Why not? Do you not love me anymore, Uncle Kevin? Do you hate me? Why would you—”

He ended the call.

He wanted to throw up, but he didn’t have anything left in him. The snacks in the break room had run out some time ago.

The phone rang again, and he dragged it to his ear without looking at it.

"Dammit, I told you—" He started.

"Kevin?" 

The air rushed from Kevin’s lungs. Tears welled in his too-dry eyes. “Xavier?” 

"Kevin, are you all right?" Xavier asked. "You don’t sound so good." 

"I—" He sniffled. "Xavier, everything’s gone so wrong. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know if anyone else is left. I haven’t heard from anyone else— I— I thought you were—"

"Where are you?" Xavier asked urgently. "Kevin, let me help you."

"Yes. Please. I’m— I’m at the radio station. Please come. I— I changed the codes on the locks. The new code is 0615… like our anniversary, remember?"  His voice broke. "Please hurry, Xavier. I need you. I need you so much."

"I’ll be there soon." 

The call ended. Kevin sat in his chair, rocking himself back and forth, back and forth. Xavier was smart. He was a scientist. He knew what to do about this sort of thing. He’d fix it, and reverse it, and everything would be okay. Everything would be okay. Everything…

A knock sounded at the door of the studio. “Kevin?”

"Xavier!" Kevin scrambled upright so fast his head started spinning, and threw open the door. "Xavier, I’m so glad you’re—"

"So am I, Kevin." Xavier smiled wide. Too wide. Wider than the muscles of his face should have allowed. "Thank you for letting me in. I was getting worried about you."

His eyes— his beautiful, brandy-brown eyes— they were gone.

"Oh, Kevin," he said. "What’s wrong? Aren’t you going to greet me?"

"I—" Kevin swallowed. "Of course. Of course, babe. Darling." He stepped forward, an inch at a time.

"Kevin, you’re shaking."

"Dehydration," Kevin said. "That’s all. It’s very scientific."

"Of course, Kev. Of course." 

Kevin reached up to cradle that familiar, twisted face. Xavier leaned forward to kiss him—

"Please, no," he begged, and Xavier leaned back, looking hurt. "I— my breath is awful. I’ve been sick. I— just let me… hug you, okay?  I want so much to hold you." And he lowered his hands, wrapped them around Xavier’s neck.

And squeezed.

Xavier struggled. He thrashed, he clawed, he punched, he kicked— but he never stopped smiling. Not even when Kevin slammed his head repeatedly through the glass of the studio window. Not even when the broken glass sliced into him and claimed a trophy: a chunk of his scalp, trailing his long, beautiful dark hair. They wrestled, smashing against furniture until their teeth littered the studio floor. 

Kevin wasn’t sure exactly when Xavier stopped struggling, or when he’d crawled over his boyfriend’s body to huddle in a corner. 

Xavier was gone. Sylvia was gone. Vanessa was gone.

All of Desert Bluffs was gone.

There was nowhere left to go. No one left to go to.

There was nothing.

Slowly Kevin dragged himself to his feet and staggered through the break room. Down the hall. Toward the front door that hung open like the gate of an abandoned cemetery.

"Just make it stop," he begged from the shadows. "Please. I’ll do whatever you want. Just— please— make it stop."

And he stepped into the light.


	19. Temporal Distortion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> G
> 
> The-lies-afterall prompted me with the following:
> 
> Aw man writer’s block! If you’re asking for a prompt, (or if this isn’t too confusing or too vague haha) what about like a note themed kind of thing? Passing notes maybe because Cecil and/or Carlos (or whoever’s your favorite) is busy or before they got together, or maybe an AU of some sort. Is that too generic? Anyway, hope you can get some ideas again!
> 
> This is what I came up with.

6/15/2014 9:30PM

Cecil:

**Carlos, is tried collapsing yodel, but myelin phone burst into flamethrower.**

 

6/15/2014 9:31PM

Cecil:

**Sorry. The fire extinguisher foam was gunking up the screen.**

**I tried calling you, but my phone burst into flames.**

**It did the same sort of thing with Dana. It didn’t like texting her, either, but it doesn’t seem to be acting up when I text you. But I didn’t have any problem receiving calls from Dana.**

**Call me?**

**I love you.**

 

6/15/2014 9:35PM

Carlos:

**I love you, Cecil. I’ll call you as often as I can, I promise.**

6/18/2014 5:14AM

Carlos:

**Cecil? I tried calling you, but you didn’t pick up. Are you okay?**

6/18/2014 8:06PM

Cecil:

**Sorry, Carlos. I was in the middle of a broadcast. Also I was being backed into a corner by rabid basketballs, and my hands were too busy with the standard issue airsoft rifle to text back right away.**

**Or… it was right away, right? The phone only just rang a few minutes ago.**

6/29/2014 3:46PM

**Carlos:**

**Oh, thank god you’re okay!**

 

6/29/2014 3:52PM

Carlos:

**I’ve been trying to call you for the past several days, and you didn’t pick up. I was afraid something had happened. I’m relieved it was only time dilation. I should have anticipated that. Time isn’t real in Night Vale, and it’s not real here, either. Wherever this is. I should have realized it was only a temporal misalignment.**

**I’m a bit embarrassed with myself for worrying so much. But I’m also glad that you’re okay. And I’m also concerned about your run-in with the basketballs— I hope they didn’t bite you? Or bounce too hard? I wish I was there to make sure you’re okay.**

**I wish I could see you.**

 

6/18/2014 8:10PM

Cecil:

**I wish I could see you again, too.**

**I’m all right, though. Only a few scratches and bites. Nothing a quick dip into the anti-rabies vaccine won’t fix.**

 

7/1/2014 1:05AM

Carlos:

**I’m glad to hear that.**

**I love you.**

 

6/18/2014 8:22PM

Cecil:

**Carlos, are those dates right? Is it already July where you are?**

7/1/2014 1:30AM

Carlos:

**I don’t know. The sun doesn’t ever set here. It’s all very bright all the time.**

**I’m tired.**

 

6/18/2014 8:34PM

Cecil:

**Maybe I should let you sleep, then. Do you want to skip the phone call tonight?**

 

7/1/2014 1:30AM

Carlos:

**No. I need to hear your voice, Cecil. I need you.**

 

7/5/2014 12:01AM

Carlos:

**I need you, Cecil.**

 

7/8/2014 9:48PM

Carlos:

**Cecil, I love you.**

 

6/18/2014 9:29PM

Cecil:

**Carlos, I’m finishing up my broadcast right now. I’m going to call you the second I’m out of the station, okay?**

 

6/18/2014 9:45PM

Cecil:

**Carlos?**

**I tried calling you and my phone tried to crawl away.**

**Carlos, can you call me?**

**Carlos?**

 

6/18/2014 11:00PM

Cecil:

**Carlos?**

 

6/19/2014 7:01AM

Cecil:

**Carlos, is this another time thing?**

**Please call me.**

 

6/19/2014 9:51PM

Cecil:

**Carlos, I’m trying to be calm, but I’m getting worried. Please text me when you get this.**

 

6/20/2014 9:18PM

Cecil:

**I love you, Carlos.**

 

6/21/2014 11:27PM

Cecil:

**I love you.**

 

6/22/2014 2:07PM

Cecil:

**Old Woman Josie says I shouldn’t text you so much. If you haven’t replied yet, it’s because you can’t— probably because of that stupid temporal shift— and getting all these messages at once will overload your phone. Please call me or text me or do something when you’re aligned with my timeline again.**

 

7/15/2014 3:56AM

Cecil:

**Twelfth texts aren’t two much, rite? Yore phone cantake it**

**Remember or first date? Its was a year ago**

**I was so happy**

**Where are u, Carlos?**

**Pleasure text me our call me r something**

**I miss you**

**No**

**doesn’t call me**

**I thinks I drank to much**

**sorry**

**I loves you**

**Is love you**

**I love you**

**Come home**

 

7/15/2004 8:30AM

Carlos:

**Cecil?**

**Cecil, I tried to call but I couldn’t get through.**

**Cecil, I’m home! I made it!**

**Can you please pick me up?**

 

7/15/2004 9:48AM

Cecil:

**Who is this?**

 

7/15/2004 9:49AM

Carlos:

**It’s Carlos. I’m home!**

 

7/15/2004 9:52AM

Cecil:

**I think you have the wrong number.**

 

7/15/2004 9:53AM

Carlos:

**No, I don’t. I’m sure of it.**

**This is the same number I’ve been texting all this time.**

**I’m sorry I missed your earlier texts, Cecil, but I’m back now.**

 

7/15/2004 10:01AM

Cecil:

**You have the wrong number. I don’t know anyone named Carlos.**

**Please stop texting me. I’m trying to sleep.**

**Author's Note:**

> If you ever want to chat or volunteer yourself as a human(ish) sacrifice to keep the City Council happy, you can find me on Tumblr at Thief-in-the-Dark.tumblr.com


End file.
